Here you are: the general’s daughter, standing in front of your mirror and pulling on the skimpiest, tiniest Halloween costume you could find.
To be fair, you were usually a total daddy’s girl. But you also had a nasty habit of always getting your way, and your poor pops usually folded the second you put your mind to something. Not this time, though.
You were home for college break and had vivid plans to meet up with your friends for a night of chaotic campus parties. Your father had flat-out refused, "demanding" your attendance at his soirée instead tonight.
Oh, that didn't go down well.
You had spent the entire week butting heads. Inherently, you had inherited his stubbornness, but your poor dad was about to find out exactly how far you were willing to go to make a point.
Tonight’s event was technically a "Halloween" party, but given that the guest list was a room full of military suits, high-ranking superiors, old rich men, and government officials, it wasn't exactly screaming cheap tequila shots and tacky costume party. Your father fully expected you to show up as the picture-perfect image of the general’s sweet, obedient good girl.
Which is exactly why you chose a raunchy, wildly inappropriate take on a Girl Scout.
The outfit consisted of thigh-high white stockings, the tiniest green shorts known to man, and a crisp white crop top that functioned much more like a bra than an actual shirt. To top off the irony, you pinned on a green sash covered in merit badges and tossed the matching cap onto your curled hair.
“Fuck you too, General Shepherd,” you muttered to your reflection, smirking at your handiwork.
Swinging open the double doors of your bedroom, you began your descent down the hall toward the grand, open staircase. You walked with an intentional, prissy stride, the sharp click of your pumps rattling against the marble floor. You wanted everyone to know exactly who was arriving.
The moment your foot hit the top step, the low hum of conversation in the foyer below ground to a sudden halt.
Old women sent death glares your way, whispering furiously as they yanked on the arms of their husbands. Not that the husbands minded—their eyes shamelessly tracked your every movement, watching the way you bounced with each step down the stairs.
Head held high, you kept that wicked smirk firmly in place as you sauntered straight toward your father.
If looks could kill, you’d have been dead and buried yesterday.
You had never seen him so furious. He was practically vibrating on the spot, his face tightening as he watched his only daughter stroll through a crowd of his peers wearing next to nothing.
“Hi, Daddy,” you purred, playing entirely coy. You wrapped yourself around his rigid arm, sending a teasing glance toward the circle of older men surrounding him. “Who are your friends?”
The old men clearly didn’t mind the view. Sharing passing glances with each other as they smoked their Cuban cigars. If anything, they looked highly amused by your little stunt, which only added to your enjoyment. Filthy old men, thinking nasty thoughts about their colleague's daughter. It was working out perfectly.
Your father didn’t even look down at you. Instead, his eyes scanned the room, dropping a subtle nod. Within seconds, the crowd parted, and four massive soldiers materialized out of the shadows, completely surrounding the two of you.
A sudden hint of worry flickered through your bravado. “Who are they?” you asked, your voice losing a bit of its playful edge.
These men didn’t look amused at all. They looked deadly. One of them, wearing a grim skull mask, just stared straight into your soul with an unblinking, chilling intensity. It was genuinely creepy.
Shepherd finally spoke, his voice dangerously low as he looked at the masked man. “I want her out of here.”
“No problem, sir,” the one with the thick moustache said, dropping a heavy, calloused hand onto your shoulder. Before you could even protest, the other men moved in, their grips firm and unyielding as they forcefully marched you away from the party.
You just rolled your eyes, secretly amused by your father’s theatrics. Imagine getting kicked out of a party hosted in your own living room.
“Oh, please. It was a joke,” you scoffed, tossing your head back as you walked with the men you assumed were just tonight’s hired security.
But as they started guiding you up the grand staircase toward your bedroom, your father stepped forward. He caught the arm of the mustached man, leaning in to whisper something low into his ear while his eyes locked dead onto you. You swore you saw a dark, predatory glint flash across the soldier's face, sending an unexpected chill straight down your spine. What the hell were they talking about? And why were they looking at you like that?
The illusion of a harmless prank shattered the second they pushed you into your room. You were dropped onto your mattress, and three massive soldiers immediately flanked the doorway, completely blocking your only exit. You sat up, glaring at them.
“You can’t keep me locked up in here, you know,” you declared, defiantly folding your arms over your chest.
They didn't move. They didn't even blink. The absolute silence in the room only fed your growing irritation.
Then, the bedroom door clicked open again. The mustached man stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. There was something about the sheer weight of his presence that made the air feel thin. You shifted awkwardly on the edge of the bed, a sudden wave of discomfort washing over you—and he noticed, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face.
Trying to regain your footing, you lifted your chin. “I was just telling your buddies here—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
The words cut through the room like a whip. You froze, completely shocked. No one had ever spoken to you like that in your entire life—much less someone employed by your father. It worked, though; your mouth hung slightly agape as you stared up at him.
He crossed the room, his heavy tactical boots silent against the rug until he was towering directly over where you sat. The bedroom suddenly felt a lot smaller.
“Spoiled all your life and expect to get your way all the time, don’t you, pet?” A rough, scarred hand reached down, his knuckles grazing your jawline.
“We’ll have to fix that little attitude issue, won’t we, lads?” he murmured, turning his head slightly toward the other men. The soldiers by the door didn't break formation, but the dark, menacing look they shared made it clear they were all on the same page.
For the first time tonight, you were officially scared. You felt like you had finally met your match. But you were still the General’s daughter, and your stubborn streak ran too deep to let you back down completely.
Lifting your eyes to meet his, you spat out, “Fuck you.”
The man leaned down, his grip on your jaw tightening just enough to pin you in place. His hot breath brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Oh, don’t worry, love. You will.”
My comfort zone
TF141 x Reader
mdni
TW: non con, drugging, truama
For anon, based on this request
The mission was simple: go in, get his guard down, and get out.
You and the guys had been working this coup for weeks now, and the margins were far too thin to accept failure. Military—especially CIA psyops—did this kind of thing all the time. They called it a "honey trap." But the difference between you and some office-dwelling blonde agent flashing a bit of cleavage to get a target talking was that you were deep in hostile territory. Your only backup was four elite soldiers, and you were facing down dozens.
The odds were heavily stacked against you.
But the mission was, and always would be, the priority.
Still, your current attire was a far cry from your usual tactical gear. Your boobs were pushed up to your chin, your dress was so short your thighs were feeling the draft, and you were balancing on stilettos so high it was like watching Bambi walk on ice. You could navigate your way through a heavy artillery barrage, but god forbid someone put a pair of six-inch heels in front of you.
“You look good, soldier,” Price reassured you, his voice calm as he adjusted the wire secured against your skin, making sure the transmitter was completely hidden.
Your nerves were written all over your face. You were practically walking into the lion’s den completely unarmed, and it felt like suicide.
“Relax,” he said, patting your shoulder firmly as if trying to knock some of the air back into your lungs.
“Yeah...” You shook your head, trying to clear the fog. “Just get me out of this fucking dress and I’ll be fine,” you muttered.
The other guys caught a glimpse of you as you walked past, immediately breaking into wolf whistles and giggling like a bunch of schoolboys.
You simply raised your middle finger in response.
“I’d say it’s a massive improvement, eh, boys?” Soap joked, causing illicit laughter to erupt among the squad.
“Fuck off, MacTavish, or you’ll catch this stiletto up your ass next,” you shot back.
The guys gagged dramatically at the visual, immediately bringing Soap down a peg as a wave of embarrassment flushed his ears red.
As crude and insulting as the banter was, it had a purpose. It calmed you down. You were already freaking out, and you needed to bring your mind back to that steady, focused baseline they all knew so well.
Taking a deep breath, you walked into the bar, making sure to add a ditzy, exaggerated sway to your hips.
The low chatter in the room instantly quieted. You were the only woman there—and a stunning one at that. Every single eye in the place locked onto you.
You scanned the room, keeping your expression light and vacant, until you spotted the target. He was sitting in a corner booth, flanked by a few men who were likely known associates.
Playing your part, you sexily sauntered over to the bar, making sure to turn your head in his direction just enough to say I see you, come talk to me.
It worked. Before you could even order from the bartender, one of the target’s associates approached, asking if you’d like to join them at their table.
Taking his offered hand, you let him lead you up to the booth, sliding in directly next to the target. The other men immediately stood up, vacating the table to leave the two of you alone, though they lingered nearby. You definitely weren’t alone in this bar.
The target stared at you with hungry, predatory eyes. It was a look that made your skin crawl, but you kept your smile bright and inviting.
Your earpiece crackled softly with static.
“Alright, soldier. Remember, we’re stationed just outside if anything goes sideways. We need those key codes. Just focus on the objective—you’re doing great,” Ghost’s low voice commed through.
Hearing his steady tone instantly anchored your nerves.
“So, a pretty girl like you, all the way out here…” The target’s eyes slowly traced down your body, taking in your skimpy outfit. “Dressed like this…” He shook his head, tutting as if reprimanding a naughty child.
“Can’t a girl just go out for a drink?” you teased, leaning in close and laying the charm on extra thick. You needed him distracted and entirely buttered up if you were going to swipe the codes.
“Of course. And you’ve come to the right place. I’ll take care of you.” His breath was thick with the foul stench of cheap cigars and whiskey. It made you physically sick.
He gestured to the bartender, and a dark drink was placed in front of you. You knew better than to drink anything in a place like this, but refusing would immediately raise suspicion. You took a small sip, hoping to play it off, but the harsh liquor hit your throat, and almost instantly, something felt wrong. You tried to dismiss the sudden wave of nausea, telling yourself to stay focused.
But within seconds, everything went hazy. The room began to spin violently, like your head had been shoved into a slow-moving washing machine.
“W-what… the fuck…” Your speech was heavily slurred, and your limbs went completely limp.
The target caught you, his heavy arm wrapping around your waist—the only thing keeping your deadweight body from slipping off the booth. This was bad. Very bad.
“Why don’t we get you somewhere a little more private, hmm?” was the last thing you heard before the darkness took over, and you blacked out completely.
It had been too long. Way too long.
Simon was starting to lose his mind; he absolutely hated this. You were supposed to be in and out in under ten minutes so the task force could move in and sweep the place.
“Soldier, do you copy?” he radioed through the comms. He maintained his position in the heavy brush outside, trying desperately to get a visual through his scope, but the windows were completely blacked out. It was no use.
“Captain, her wire has gone completely dark.”
Price was just as anxious as Simon. In their line of work, when you get a bad feeling in your gut, it’s almost always right.
“I don’t like this, lads,” Gaz commed through, his voice tight.
“Aye, me neither. Fuck knows what they’re doing to her in there,” Soap interjected, his usual playful tone replaced by a sharp, dangerous edge.
“Right,” Price commanded, his voice turning cold and authoritative. “Our priority now is getting our girl out of there. Ghost, I want you to infiltrate from the south entrance. Gaz, cover his back. Soap, you and me will handle the front.”
With that, the men moved with robotic, lethal precision, their training taking over the moment the orders were spoken. They were going to get you back—and God help anyone who stood in their way.
It didn’t take long for the guys to clear out the bar. Within minutes, the air was thick with the suffocating smell of gun smoke and the sharp, metallic tinge of blood.
“Gaz, you handle the rest. I’m going to search the back,” Ghost growled over the comms.
Gaz gave him a brief nod, securing the perimeter. Most of the main area had been completely neutralized, but you were still nowhere to be seen.
Simon moved down a narrow, dimly lit corridor, his weapon raised. It wasn’t until he reached the very end of the hall and spotted a heavy, slightly ajar door that he heard it—the faint, haunting whimpers that immediately gave away your location.
He busted through the door, and the scene before him made his blood run cold.
You were laying helplessly on a tattered mattress in the corner of the room. Your dress was torn and ripped, your weak body already littered with fresh bruises and cuts, and your hair was tangled and wild. The bastards had done a number on you, your face swollen and battered from where they had struck you. Faint, broken whimpers escaped your swollen lips as a handful of men stood around the bed, laughing casually as they waited their turn.
Simon saw enough, and something inside him snapped. He completely lost it.
Within minutes, every single man in that room lay dead. Simon didn't just shoot them; he used his blade, ensuring they felt every ounce of the agonizing, slow death he reserved for the worst of humanity. The room fell into a heavy, ringing silence, save for the sound of his own ragged breathing.
But the moment his gaze drifted back to you, the terrifying killer vanished. His chest tightened, his heart breaking as he stared at your fragile form. For a second, he paralyzed, afraid to even touch you. Truth be told, seeing you lie there, broken and defenseless, dragged up dark, suffocating memories from his own childhood—horrors he had suppressed a long time ago.
Forcefully shoving the ghosts of his past aside, he stepped forward and dropped to his knees beside the tattered mattress.
“It’s okay, love. It’s me,” he murmured, his gravelly voice incredibly soft as he reached down. “You’re safe now.”
He gently gathered you into his massive arms, lifting you against his chest. Even in your drug-induced, shocked state, your body instinctively recognized him. You curled tightly into his warmth, your ragged, uneven breaths shuddering against his tactical vest as he carried you out of the darkness.
By the time you finally came to, you were lying in a sterile hospital bed, hooked up to a web of wires and beeping monitors. It took your groggy brain a moment to piece together where you were. Frantically looking around the room, your eyes landed on Simon, perched in a plastic chair at the side of your bed, appearing to be lightly dozing.
The moment you shifted against the stiff sheets, he woke up. His brown eyes, heavy with exhaustion, searched your face, completely unsure of what to say or do next.
“W-what happened?” your voice cracked, coarse and dry.
Simon couldn’t bring himself to meet your gaze. His head hung low, almost afraid to repeat the brutal reality of what had happened. Truth be told, he desperately hoped you’d just forget—that your mind would simply block out the trauma entirely. It would be the kindest outcome.
Before he had to answer, the door swung open. Captain Price, Soap, and Gaz walked back into the room, holding cardboard cup carriers of lukewarm coffee and a colorful bouquet of flowers from the hospital gift shop.
“She’s awake,” Price beamed, trying to bring a spark of warmth into the room as he handed you the bouquet. But the gesture fell flat; the air in the room was suffocatingly heavy.
They all looked at you with the same soft, pitying expression. It was that look that did it. In an instant, the protective fog in your brain shattered, and the memories came flooding back like a runaway freight train.
A suffocating wave of panic gripped your chest. Your breathing became instantly erratic, shallow gasps escaping your throat as the heart monitor beside the bed began to ring out with a frantic, accelerating alarm.
Before the doctor or the other men could even react, Ghost bypassed the medical staff and scrambled onto the edge of the bed. He pulled you directly into his chest, cradling you securely in his massive arms and gently rocking you back and forth.
“Shhh, just breathe,” he murmured, his deep voice vibrating against your ear.
“No one can hurt you now. I’m here, love”
The steady, heavy pressure of his hold acted as an anchor, slowly pulling you back down to earth as you sank into his touch, burying your face in his shoulder.
It had been like this the entire time you were unconscious. Whenever you had briefly stirred, gripped by violent night terrors, Simon would immediately pull you into his arms and hold you until the shaking stopped. He hadn’t left your side once since he carried you out of that bar. Price, Soap, and Gaz didn't question it. They simply accepted it in silence, knowing this was a trauma they could never begin to understand—and that Simon was the only one who could guide you through the dark.
What did you just say? Asking COD men if they wish they were athletic
tf141 headcannons//imagines
mdni
for 🐚🧸
Hope you enjoy my love, thank you again for the request, you always have the best ideas!
Price:
Price was well-used to your antics by now. Maybe it was the age gap—you being a textbook Gen Z and him being a literal dinosaur—but either way, he had learned to absolutely adore your weird, beautiful little brain.
Because of that, you’d decided to pay him a surprise visit on base today. John secretly lived for these visits; they brightened his gruelling days and brought a sweet, grounding touch of domesticity to his chaotic military life.
But you had an ulterior motive today. You’d seen a hilarious trend going around TikTok recently, and you just knew your husband would be the absolute perfect victim. The premise was simple: casually ask your incredibly fit, highly trained partner if they "ever wished they were athletic" and film their reaction.
As gullible as John could be when it came to your jokes, you knew he’d take the bait hook, line, and sinker.
When you pulled into the base parking lot, John was already standing there waiting for you. A massive, genuine smile broke across his rugged face the second he spotted your car, clearly eager to see his cute wife.
You had baked a fresh batch of blueberry muffins earlier that morning as an extra surprise, knowing they were his absolute favourite. The second he opened the passenger door and climbed in next to you, the sweet, warm scent filled the car—and John immediately went for the baked goods.
“Good to see I’m second best to the muffins,” you teased, watching him practically inhale an entire muffin in one go.
He just rolled his eyes, leaning over to plant a sweet, blueberry-flavored kiss on your lips before immediately digging right back in.
He was so deeply focused on his food that he didn’t even notice you subtly setting up your phone camera on the dashboard to capture the scene.
“Slow down, big guy,” you laughed. “I brought those for the rest of your boys, too.” You had baked more than enough to share, but he was already working his way through a third one.
“Tough shit,” he mumbled around a mouthful of muffin, shielding the container playfully. “My wife. My muffins.”
You couldn't help but laugh at his childishness. Waiting for the perfect moment while he was distracted, you leaned back, casually twirling a piece of your hair to hide your growing smirk.
“Babe, do you ever wish you were like... athletic, though?”
From the phone’s perspective, you could see John’s face instantly contort. He stopped mid-chew, his brain visibly short-circuiting as he tried to process what you had just asked him.
He blinked at you. “What?”
“Yeah,” you repeated, keeping your voice entirely serious and innocent. “Like, do you wish you were athletic?”
“I was very athletic last night when I was picking you up and throwing you—”
You cut him off immediately, scrambling to grab your phone off the dashboard. “Okay, that is enough!”
A smug smirk plastered itself across John’s face, making it entirely obvious that he was already onto your little game.
“You didn’t think I’d learned my lesson from last time, pet?” he asked, taking another massive bite of his muffin while staring at you with pure, twinkling amusement.
Your jaw dropped. “You knew?!”
“I know everything, sweetheart.”
You slumped back in your seat, utterly deflated, and began to sulk over your ruined TikTok prank.
“And besides,” John continued, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he gestured to himself, “with the way you cook and bake, love, it’s a miracle I'm physically able to keep this body in shape.”
You opened your mouth, fully prepared to take offence, but quickly stopped yourself as the truth hit you. He wasn’t wrong. You absolutely adored cooking and baking rich, delicious, and not-so-healthy treats, and nothing brought you more joy than feeding your absolute hunk of a husband.
“Anyway, I've got to get back to it, love,” he said, leaning over to plant a warm, lingering kiss on the crown of your head.
In one swift, practised military manoeuvre, he swiped the entire container of muffins from the passenger side before sliding out of the car. "See you tonight."
You watched him walk back toward the barracks, shaking your head in fond resignation. You knew for a fact that the poor members of Task Force 141 were never going to lay eyes on a single crumb of those muffins with John around.
-
Gaz:
It had been so nice lately. Taking full advantage of a rare spell of sunshine, you and Gaz decided to host a backyard barbecue and invite all your friends over, including the 141 guys. It was rare enough to get blue skies, much less to have your husband home from a deployment to actually enjoy them with you.
Gaz was on grill duty, which naturally meant he and the guys were crowded around the smoking charcoal, bantering loudly over cold beers. There was just as much dramatic burger-flipping as there was beer-tossing. Meanwhile, you were gathered with a few of your girls on the patio, nursing a glass of wine, helping with the side dishes, and having a much-needed catch-up.
As the afternoon melted into evening, the topic of TikTok came up. Your best friend, who was already pleasantly tipsy, suddenly had a dramatic, wide-eyed lightbulb moment.
"Oh my god," she gasped, grabbing your arm. "You should so do that 'do you wish you were athletic?' prank on Gaz. He would absolutely lose his mind!"
Immediately, the other girls squealed, already giggling at the sheer potential of it. Kyle was notoriously proud of his physical conditioning—and, of course, genuinely elite-level athletic—so this particular jab was guaranteed to pinch a nerve.
You were so in.
As night fell, the barbecue transitioned to the firepit. The drinks kept flowing, and by this point, everyone was properly trashed. Laughter echoed through the yard as everyone huddled closer to the warmth.
You caught your best friend’s eye across the fire. She gave you a subtle, encouraging nod. It was time.
"Wow, Soap," you said slurringly, leaning forward and pointing a dramatic, wine-fueled finger at his chest. "You’ve gotten pretty fit. I’m happy for you. Gaz, look—don’t you think Johnny looks great?"
"Aw, thanks, lass! Just all-natural Scottish beef, what can I say?" Soap beamed, practically preening. He started badly flexing his bicep, his balance so shot from the alcohol that he nearly tipped off his lawn chair, sending you and the girls into a fit of giggles.
Gaz merely rolled his eyes, unimpressed, and took a slow swig of his Stella.
"I'm serious, Gaz," you said, doing your absolute level best to adopt a solemn, pitying tone. "Like... do you ever wish you were athletic?"
The girls instantly buried their faces in their hands, shoulders shaking with muffled laughter.
Beside you, the entire atmosphere of the backyard shifted. Gaz froze mid-swallow, nearly choking on his beer. Across the firepit, Ghost’s head slowly turned toward Gaz like a mechanical turret, and Soap’s eyes went completely dinner-plate wide.
"Excuse me?" Gaz squeaked, his voice cracking slightly.
"Yeah. Like, do you ever wish you were athletic? Like Soap?"
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" You had never seen Kyle’s face make so many expressions at once. He looked in a complete state of sheer panic and offense, as if you had just accused him of committing a war crime.
"Gaz—" Soap started, a massive, drunken grin spreading across his face as he prepared to launch into a triumphant tirade.
"Zip it, Mohawk!" Gaz snapped, throwing a clumsy, wild hand in the air to effectively shush Johnny. "I've got bigger fish to fry right now."
At this point, you completely lost it. You fell back in your chair, belly-laughing at the sheer, dramatic outrage of your highly trained SAS husband losing his mind over a TikTok joke.
"I-I'm joking, Kyle—!" you gasped, wiping a tear from your eye.
"No, no, no. I’ll show you athletic." Gaz scrambled to his feet, though he had to take a hasty, undignified side-step to keep from stumbling into the firepit.
Before you could even explain the trend, the backyard devolved into absolute chaos.
Within five minutes, Gaz and Soap had cleared a space on the grass for an official press-up contest. To make it "fair" and add extra resistance, Gaz insisted you sit on his back, while your best friend was hoisted onto Soap's. Ghost was officially appointed as the referee, holding a half-empty beer and taking his job far too seriously, kicking Soap’s foot when his form slipped.
The drunken fitness exhibition lasted for a solid hour, featuring clumsy handstand attempts, a very shaky pull-up contest using the sturdy branch of your oak tree, and Gaz loudly reciting his fitness assessment scores to anyone who would listen.
Safe to say, your husband went above and beyond to prove his point—both in the backyard for your friends, and later on in bed, once everyone had finally gone home...
-
Ghost:
You were laying in bed, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok while the rumbling sound of the shower echoed from the bathroom. Suddenly, a familiar trending video popped up on your feed. A devious grin spread across your face. Simon was the absolute perfect test subject for this. You quickly propped your phone up against the headboard, hiding the screen just as the bathroom door clicked open.
A thick flurry of steam rolled out, followed by your husband. Simon stood there with a towel slung low around his waist, water droplets still glistening on his bulky, scarred chest. His damp, blonde hair was messy and tousled, falling slightly into his eyes. If you weren’t currently in the middle of setting up a prank, you would have pounced on him right then and there.
He padded over to the foot of the bed, a lazy, sleepy sort of mischief in his dark eyes. Crawling up, he grabbed your ankle—evidently, he was in the mood to pull you to him, but he was going to have to wait.
"Si, wait," you giggled, trying to halt his needy advances as you kept one eye on the hidden camera.
"Come on, dove," he grumbled, his low voice a gravelly, post-shower growl as he tugged your leg a little further down the mattress. "I want you. Now."
"I know, I know, but... I was just thinking about something."
That made him pause. If Simon had learned anything from being married to you, it was that your random, spur-of-the-moment thoughts were usually chaotic—but he indulged you regardless.
"Yeah, love? What's that?" he murmured, sitting back up on his knees. His massive, calloused hands slid up to massage your calf, occasionally leaning down to press warm, soft kisses against your skin.
"Do you..." You paused, putting on your best clueless, innocent face. "Do you ever wish you were like... athletic?"
Simon froze. His thumb stopped mid-stroke on your skin. He just stared at you. Then, his eyes slowly drifted toward where your phone was perched, then back to you. The silence stretched for a hard, agonizing minute. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting for your absolute life to keep a straight face.
"Sorry, just..." Simon shook his head, his brow furrowing in genuine, deep confusion. "What?"
"Do you wish you were athletic?" you repeated, tilting your head.
This time, Simon’s head slowly fell. He looked down at his own torso—at the heavy, rock-hard slab of his abdomen, the thick muscle of his thighs, and the massive span of his arms.
"I knew it," he muttered, his voice suddenly dropping an octave into a tone of quiet, devastating defeat.
"Simon?"
"I'm getting soft, aren't I?"
The sheer, heartbreaking disappointment in his voice was your immediate undoing. The prank was instantly dead. You wanted to climb over the bed, wrap him in a blanket, and apologize to him for the rest of his life.
"What? No! Baby, no, I'm joking! It’s a TikTok joke!" you squealed, laughing but frantic as you tried to reach for him.
But it was too late; the seed of doubt had been planted in the giant's head. Simon scrambled up from the bed, his towel barely staying secure as he rushed over to stand directly in front of the full-length mirror. His face was a picture of sheer, vulnerable panic as he turned slightly, inspecting his reflection.
"I've let myself go, love," he sighed, poking at his side with a frown. "Not as lean as I used to be back in Hereford. Johnny's always talking about his bloody macros, maybe I should—"
"No, no, no! Baby, come here!"
You scrambled off the bed and rushed over to him, wrapping your arms tightly around his broad back from behind. You pressed your face against his warm shoulder blades before turning him around to force him to look at you.
"I love you exactly like this," you cooed sweetly, looking up into his big, melting brown eyes. "You're like a big, warm bear. You're so strong and protective, and you look perfect. It was just a silly internet trend, I swear. I'm so sorry."
Hearing those words, the tension instantly drained from his massive shoulders. A tiny, shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes softening as he looked down at you.
"Thanks, love," he murmured softly, leaning down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips.
He pulled back just enough to let a dark, playful glint return to his eyes.
"But..." Simon rumbled, his hands suddenly wrapping around your waist. "I think you owe me one for that little stunt."
"Simon—ah!"
Before you could even finish his name, he hoisted you over his shoulder like you weighed absolutely nothing. You squealed in fits of laughter, batting at his back as he carried you back to the bed and tossed you playfully onto the mattress, diving in right after you.
Safe to say, you spent the rest of the night—and a good portion of the morning—vigorously reassuring him that his stamina was absolutely, 100% fine.
-
Soap:
You are sitting on the living room sofa, pretending to read a book while your phone is secretly propped up on the coffee table, recording.
Johnny has just burst into the house after a run. He is sweaty, wearing a tank top that should be classified as a safety hazard, and absolutely glowing with endorphins. He’s practically vibrating with energy, immediately heading to the kitchen to shake up a protein flask, loudly hum-singing some terrible Scottish pub song.
He struts into the living room, takes a massive, dramatic gulp of his shake, and leans against the doorframe, flashing you a blinding, proud grin.
"Seven miles today, lass! Shaved two minutes off my personal best. Feeling absolutely rapid," he brags, flexing a sweaty bicep for you. "What do you think of that?"
This is your cue. You don't look up from your book. You just sigh softly—a little pitying, heavy sigh.
"That's great, Johnny. Really." You turn a page. "But... do you ever wish you were like... athletic?"
Johnny freezes mid-flex. The protein shaker stops halfway to his mouth. For three seconds, the only sound in the room is the refrigerator humming.
"Come again?" he says, his thick Scottish accent suddenly going up an octave.
"You know," you say, finally looking up with the most innocent, clueless expression you can muster. "Like... athletic. Like Ghost, or Gaz. Do you ever wish you had that kind of natural fitness?"
It is like you have just insulted his mother, his country, and his mohawk all in one breath.
Johnny’s jaw drops. His chest heaves. "Are you—are you taking the piss?!" he splutters, slamming his protein shake onto the coffee table so hard the wooden legs rattle.
"I ran seven miles in the pouring rain! I literally do tactical obstacle courses for a living! I am made of muscle, lass! Look at this!"
He grabs his own thigh, slapping it dramatically. "That is pure, grade-A steel! I could carry a whole-ass donkey up a mountain if I wanted to!"
"I mean, yeah, you try really hard, babe, and that's super cute," you say, patting his arm patronisingly. "But I mean like... athletic. The kind of people who don't have to make a whole big deal out of a little run."
Johnny looks like he is about to have a medical emergency. His face goes bright red.
"A little run?! A little run?!" He starts pacing the living room, waving his hands wildly. "That's it. No. I'm not having this. We are settling this right now."
Before you can even utter the words "Johnny, it's a TikTok trend," he has already grabbed you by the waist, hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and marched you straight out into the backyard.
"Johnny, put me down!" you scream, completely dissolving into giggles.
"No! You think I'm not athletic? I'll show you athletic!"
He drops you onto the grass, immediately drops into a perfect plank position next to you, and starts doing explosive, clapping push-ups at supersonic speed.
"One! Two! Three!" he bellows, counting out loud to the sky. "Is this cute?! Am I trying too hard now, princess?!"
By the time Gaz and Price walk into the backyard—having just arrived to drop off some gear—they find Johnny in the middle of the lawn, absolutely drenched in sweat, doing high-knees while screaming about his VO2 max, while you are lying flat on your back in the grass, crying with laughter and holding up your phone to capture the whole thing.
Gaz immediately starts recording on his own phone, shouting, "Get in there, Soap! Show her those calves!" while Price just stands by the back door, rubs his temples, and wonders why he ever agreed to lead this unit.
Once you finally manage to gasp out that it was a prank for the internet, Johnny stops mid-squat. He stares at the camera, then at you, panting heavily with his hands on his hips.
"A TikTok?" he whispers, devastated. "You did this to me... for a bloody video?"
"You were so cute, Johnny," you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck, not even caring that he's sweaty.
A massive, proud grin slowly returns to his face as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
"Aye, well... the comments better agree that I'm the most athletic bastard on your feed," he chuckles, burying his face in your neck.
a/n: Feeling a lil sad today and wanted to do some soft/angsty dad!simon Headcannons. Might do an actual fic version soon🤔
Papa Ghost who was genuinely terrified when he first heard the news of your pregnancy. His initial reaction wasn’t a happy one; in fact, the sheer panic of it sparked an explosive argument that led to you both separating for a while. Thankfully, after a month or so apart, he finally came to his senses and did everything he could to get you back—but your relationship has never been the same since that day.
Papa Ghost who nearly broke down right there in the prenatal appointment the moment he found out you were having a son. You knew exactly what this meant to him; though he rarely spoke of his past, you had pieced together enough over the years to know that fatherhood itself was a terrifying concept—let alone raising a little boy who would grow up looking up to him. Naturally, the news triggered an onslaught of constant doubts and quiet panic attacks. You knew Simon was a good man, albeit one who had spent his entire life just trying to survive, and you made it your mission in those heavy moments of doubt to constantly reassure him that he would never, ever turn out like his father.
Papa ghost who finally knew what true love felt like the moment he held your son for the very first time. He watched in awe as your little boy’s tiny fist curled tightly around his much larger finger, those big, brown eyes already full of life as they stared directly back into his own. In that instant, it was as if all of his past trauma and the weight of the world simply melted away; this tiny, innocent creature was looking up at him as if he were the only person in the entire world. It is a moment Simon will carry in his heart forever.
Papa ghost who carries a set of dog tags with "Jr." quietly inscribed on the inside—a nod to little Simon Jr., named after his daddy. At first, Simon had been deeply hesitant about the idea; he had spent the better part of his life trying to run away from the name "Simon Riley," believing it was far too heavy and stained with trauma to ever be passed down to an innocent baby. You, however, refused to let him see it that way, gently showing him that this was an opportunity for rebirth—a chance to stop running and finally view his own name with dignity, healing, and hope. He is so incredibly grateful he listened to you, because for the first time in his life, he is filled with a quiet, overwhelming pride; on those long, freezing nights on deployment, he constantly fidgets with the tiny engraving, letting the cool metal remind him of the perfect family waiting for him back home.
Papa ghost who genuinely shuts down whenever little Jr. gets fussy or starts crying. He can't help but let his mind spiral into that dark, suffocating place, drowning in corrosive thoughts—convinced that he's a terrible father, that you and the baby would be infinitely better off without him, and that his violent past will eventually bring danger right back to your doorstep. During those gruelling first weeks when Jr. was first brought home, you were already struggling to survive the physical and mental demands of new motherhood, yet you were forced to act as the sole emotional anchor for your spiralling husband as well. There were painful, silent nights when Simon would disappear into the dark without a word, becoming so distant and detached that you felt like you were losing him all over again. To this day, looking back at that time, you still wonder how on earth you found the strength to pull your family through such a dark and exhausting period.
Papa Ghost who came out the other end of those dark times a better, stronger man, eventually pulling back from his active-duty military commitments so he would never have to be away from his family again. He wanted nothing more than to be fully present for Jr., to raise him and guide him with all the love and gentleness he wished his own father had shown him. Simon fiercely swears that he will never let Jr. join the military, refusing to let his son ever witness the horrors he had to survive.
You absolutely love watching him interact with your son now, always marveling at how incredibly gentle he is with his massive hands. In the beginning, he had been so awkward and stiff, barely knowing how to hold him and constantly terrified that he would somehow hurt the fragile baby.
Now, Simon takes his role as a father so seriously that he has crossed over into completely coddling him; it used to be that Jr. would cry the moment you left the room, but now that Simon is home, your little boy can’t go more than two minutes without demanding to be held in his father's arms. The absolute cutest moments are when Simon is sprawled out completely on the living room couch, with little Simon curled up into a tiny, peaceful ball, sleeping gently on his giant father's chest.
"We haven't properly introduced ourselves," the older man started. "I'm Price."
"Ghost." He motioned to the big masked bloke staring daggers at you.
"Soap." The one with the mohawk licked his lips slightly, causing you to grimace.
"And Gaz." Price lastly motioned to the guy with tan skin. You had to admit—he was quite handsome.
"Little code names? Is that all I get?" Your tone was condescending, and it worked. You could see the tightening of Price's jaw.
Without warning, you felt a gloved hand attach itself to your throat, grip like iron, choking out the last bit of air in your lungs.
"Think you're forgetting who's in charge here, love." Price hissed into your ear before letting you go.
You coughed, grabbing onto your throat as you struggled for air, a bruise already forming. But that didn't stop you yet.
"L-like choking little girls, Price?" you weakly spat out, a look full of venom on your face.
You were expecting him to lose it at that point, but he just folded his arms calmly, a smirk on his face even as he looked down at your last attempts to stay in control.
"Little girls? Oh no." His voice dropped lower, darker. "Worthless little sluts? Now that's a different story."
The words cut deep as you sent a glare his direction. Before you could even get out another word, Ghost and Soap had crossed the room in a matter of seconds and had you pinned by your arms on either side against the bed.
Ghost stared down at you—the skull mask made your stomach churn. The hidden identity aspect didn't help at all with the situation you found yourself in. And he was huge. They were all huge, but he was freakishly huge.
They made quick work of your little Halloween costume. Loud fabric tears echoed through the room—shorts and panties and your top in shreds on the floor.
"Let me go!" You wriggled in their grip, but they didn't even budge. They only laughed in response, finding the whole thing amusing. The reality of your fate finally began to sink in, an air of panic rising within you as tears threatened to well in your eyes.
Price stepped forward, nudging your knees apart with his large thighs, exposing your hot core.
He cocked his head to the side, cooing at it like it was alive. Ghost's hand went straight to your clit, pinching it and laughing as you thrashed from the contact.
Soap joined in and started slapping your folds—both men pinching and teasing your poor pussy like it was nothing more than a toy for them to abuse.
Tears fell from your eyes—a mixture of pain and pleasure along with embarrassment as you lay there so helpless under their hold.
"Come on, lads, that's not nice." A soft voice broke through your sobs. It was Gaz. He walked over, joining in on the commotion.
Just as you thought he was going to be your knight in shining armour, he quickly bent down and placed a finger around your entrance, drawing little circles around your hole before inserting it inside you.
"At least let her cum once before she's too fucked to even know what's going on," he mock-sympathised, brown eyes carrying a dark glint as he continued to fuck your little hole with his fingers.
Ghost made steady work of your clit, continuing to rub menacing circles while Soap sucked on your tits. Your sobs turned into moans quickly as you lay there, a wet mess under their hands.
It wasn't long before you reached your climax, releasing your juices all over Gaz's fingers, shuddering from your high. For a second, you forgot where you were or who you were with as your orgasm ripped through your body.
The aftershocks still rippled through you, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as Gaz slowly withdrew his fingers. Your chest heaved, breath coming in ragged gasps. For a moment, the room was quiet except for your panting—all four men watching you come undone beneath them.
But you couldn't let them win. Not yet.
"T-that all you got?" The words tumbled out before you could stop them, your voice shaky and breathless but still dripping with venom. "Pathetic. I've had better from a—"
The slap came so fast you didn't see it coming. Price's hand cracked across your face, snapping your head to the side. The sting bloomed hot across your cheek, silencing you instantly.
"There it is," Price growled, his voice dangerously low. "Still running that fucking mouth."
Ghost's grip tightened on your wrists, pinning them above your head with bruising force. "Thought one orgasm would fix her attitude," he rumbled, his accent thick with disdain. "Guess we need to try harder."
"Much harder," Soap agreed, his hand coming down hard on your inner thigh. The sharp crack echoed through the room, followed immediately by another, and another. You yelped, trying to close your legs, but Price's thighs kept you spread wide open.
"Look at her," Gaz said, standing and wiping your slick across your own lips. "Still thinks she's in control. Still thinks this is a game."
Panic clawed at your chest. You needed leverage—something, anything to regain the upper hand. Your father. Your father was a fucking general. They couldn't do this to you.
"Wait—wait until my father hears about this!" The words came out desperate, shrill. "He'll have you all court-martialed! Dishonorably discharged! You'll rot in military prison for touching me—"
The room went silent.
Then they laughed.
All four of them—deep, genuine laughter that made your blood run cold. Price's shoulders shook with it, Ghost's chest rumbled, Soap actually doubled over slightly, and even Gaz's usually composed face split into a wide grin.
"Oh, sweetheart," Price said, wiping his eyes as his laughter subsided. "You really don't know, do you?"
Your stomach dropped. "Know what?"
Ghost leaned down, his masked face inches from yours, voice cold as death. "Who do you think gave us the green light?"
"No—" The word came out as barely a whisper.
"Your father," Price continued, his tone almost conversational now, "stopped me as we were escorting you out of his gala. You remember that, don't you? Saw him whisper in my ear?"
You did remember. You'd noticed it, wondered what was being said, but you'd been too focused on maintaining your dignity as they dragged you away.
"Want to know what he said?" Price's smile was cruel. "He said, 'Captain Price, my daughter needs an attitude adjustment. Do whatever it takes. Break her if you have to. Just make sure she learns some fucking respect.'"
The words hit you like a physical blow. Your vision swam, ears ringing. "You're lying—"
"Am I?" Price pulled out his phone, scrolling for a moment before turning the screen toward you. It was a text message from a number you recognized—your father's private line.
She's all yours. No limits. Fix her.
The phone disappeared, but the words were burned into your brain. Your own father. Your own fucking father had handed you over to them like—like you were nothing. Like you were a problem to be solved, a brat to be broken.
"He even gave us this room," Gaz added, his voice carrying mock sympathy. "Made sure it was soundproof. Said he didn't want to hear you screaming."
"No—no, he wouldn't—" But even as you said it, you knew it was true. The way he'd looked at you lately, the disappointment in his eyes every time you acted out, every time you embarrassed him in front of his colleagues.
"Face it, princess," Ghost said, his grip on your wrists tightening until you whimpered. "Daddy doesn't want you back until we've fucked all that bratty entitlement out of you. You have no leverage. No power. No escape."
Something inside you cracked. The last wall of defense, the final thread of control you'd been clinging to—it snapped. Your father had betrayed you. Given you to these men like you were nothing more than a problem to be handled.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your temples. "Please—"
"Please what?" Price asked, his hand wrapping around your throat again, tighter this time, cutting off your air completely. "Please stop? Your father said no limits, sweetheart. We can do whatever the fuck we want to you. And we're going to. We're going to fuck every last bit of that attitude out of you until you're nothing but an obedient little slut. Understand?"
You couldn't respond, couldn't breathe. Your vision started to blur at the edges, panic rising as your lungs screamed for air. Just when you thought you might pass out, he released you.
You gasped, coughing and sputtering, but before you could recover, Price grabbed your jaw roughly. "Open."
"Fuck y—"
He squeezed your cheeks, forcing your mouth open, and spat directly onto your tongue. The degradation of it made your face burn with humiliation.
"Swallow it," he commanded.
You glared up at him, defiance still flickering in your eyes despite everything. His expression darkened.
"Swallow. It."
Reluctantly, you did, the taste of him sliding down your throat. He smiled—cold and predatory.
"Good girl. See? You can follow orders when properly motivated."
"Flip her over," Ghost ordered, his voice carrying the weight of command.
They moved with military precision, manhandling you onto your stomach before you could protest. Your face pressed into the mattress, ass up in the air, completely exposed and vulnerable. Ghost kept your wrists pinned while Soap grabbed your hips, positioning you exactly how they wanted.
"This arse has been begging for attention," Soap said, his accent thick with lust. His palm came down hard on your right cheek, then your left, alternating in a brutal rhythm that had you crying out into the sheets.
"Count them," Price ordered from somewhere behind you. "And thank us for each one."
"Fuck—no—"
Another vicious slap, harder than the others.
"That's one you've missed already," Price said calmly. "We'll just have to start over. And add extras for the attitude."
Soap's hand came down again, the sound obscenely loud.
"One," you gasped out, your pride crumbling with each strike. "T-thank you."
"Thank you, what?"
"Thank you, sir."
"Better."
The spanking continued, each strike harder than the last, until your ass was burning and tears were streaming down your face. Your cunt, traitorously, was dripping—arousal mixing with humiliation in a way that made your head spin.
"Look how wet she is," Gaz observed, running a finger through your folds. "Getting off on being punished like the desperate little slut she is."
"Please—" The word escaped before you could stop it.
"Please what?" Price asked, his hand replacing Gaz's, two thick fingers sliding into you without warning. "Please stop? Please more? Use your words, sweetheart."
You couldn't answer, couldn't think. His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars, while his thumb pressed against your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming after the pain, your body confused and desperate.
"She's clenching around my fingers," Price announced. "Greedy little cunt wants more."
"Then let's give her more," Ghost said darkly.
You heard the sound of a belt buckle, then another. Your heart raced, anticipation and fear mixing into something intoxicating.
Price withdrew his fingers, leaving you empty and aching. "Who wants her mouth first?"
"Me," Soap said immediately, moving around to kneel in front of you. He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head up. His cock was already hard, thick and intimidating. "Open up, princess. Time to put that bratty mouth to good use."
You pressed your lips together stubbornly, one last act of defiance.
His grip tightened painfully in your hair. "Open. Or I'll make you."
When you still didn't comply, he pinched your nose shut, cutting off your air. You held out as long as you could, but eventually, you had to gasp for breath. The moment your mouth opened, he shoved his cock inside, making you gag.
"That's it," he groaned, holding your head in place as he thrust into your mouth. "Fucking take it."
Tears streamed down your face as he used your throat, giving you barely any time to breathe. Behind you, you felt the blunt head of someone's cock—Price's, you thought—pressing against your entrance.
"Remember, sweetheart," Price said, his voice rough with desire. "You asked for this. You wanted to see what would happen if you kept running that mouth."
He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, stretching you wide, filling you completely. You would have screamed if Soap's cock wasn't buried in your throat. The sensation of being filled from both ends was overwhelming, your body stretched and used.
They found a rhythm, Price pounding into you from behind while Soap fucked your face, both men using you like their personal toy. Ghost still held your wrists, keeping you pinned and helpless, while Gaz watched, stroking himself slowly.
"Such a pretty sight," Gaz murmured. "All that attitude fucked right out of her."
But he was wrong. Even now, even like this, you tried to hold onto some shred of control. You bit down slightly on Soap's cock—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind him you still had teeth.
He pulled out immediately, his hand cracking across your face. "Fucking bitch."
"She needs to learn," Ghost said coldly. He released your wrists only to grab your throat from behind, pulling you up so your back was against his chest. Price never stopped fucking you, the new angle making him hit even deeper. "Needs to understand what happens when she misbehaves."
His hand tightened around your throat, cutting off your air while Price continued to rail you mercilessly. The combination of pleasure and oxygen deprivation made your head spin, your vision going hazy.
"You going to behave?" Ghost growled in your ear. "Or do we need to get rougher?"
You couldn't answer, couldn't breathe. Your body was betraying you, another orgasm building despite—or maybe because of—the brutal treatment.
He released your throat just enough for you to gasp in air. "Answer me."
"F-fuck you," you managed to choke out.
Wrong answer.
Ghost shoved you back down, face-first into the mattress. Price pulled out, and before you could process the emptiness, you felt him pressing against your other hole.
"No—wait—" Panic flooded through you.
"Should have behaved," Price said simply, and pushed inside.
The stretch was intense, burning, overwhelming. You cried out, hands fisting in the sheets as he worked himself deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.
You couldn't respond, couldn't do anything but whimper as he started to move, slow at first, then faster. The pain gradually shifted into something else, something that had you moaning despite yourself.
"That's it," he praised darkly. "Take it like a good girl. This is what you needed all along, isn't it? Someone to put you in your place."
Gaz moved to kneel beside your head, his cock level with your face. "Open," he commanded, gentler than Soap but no less firm.
This time, you obeyed. You were too overwhelmed to fight anymore, too lost in sensation. He slid into your mouth, groaning at the wet heat.
"There we go," Gaz murmured, stroking your hair almost tenderly even as he fucked your throat. "See how much easier it is when you just submit?"
They used you together, Price in your ass and Gaz in your mouth, while Soap and Ghost watched, waiting their turn. Your body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with sensation. Another orgasm was building, impossible to fight, your cunt clenching around nothing.
"She's close again," Price observed, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Can feel her squeezing me. You want to cum, sweetheart?"
You moaned around Gaz's cock, desperate and needy.
"Then beg for it. Beg us to let you cum."
Gaz pulled out, giving you the chance to speak. Your voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Please—please let me cum—"
"Please what?"
"Please, sir—please—I need it—"
"Do you deserve it?" Price asked, his hand coming down hard on your already-bruised ass. "After all that attitude? After all that disrespect?"
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—please—"
"Sorry for what?"
"For being a brat—for talking back—please—I'll be good—"
"Will you?" His pace increased, brutal and punishing. "Will you really?"
"Yes! Yes, I promise—please—"
"Cum," he commanded. "Cum on my cock like the desperate little slut you are."
Permission granted, your body obeyed. The orgasm crashed through you, more intense than the first, leaving you shaking and sobbing. Price followed moments later, spilling inside you with a groan, his fingers digging bruises into your hips.
He pulled out slowly, and you collapsed onto the mattress, completely spent. But they weren't done with you yet.
"My turn," Ghost said, his voice dark with promise. "And I'm not going to be gentle."
You barely had time to catch your breath before Ghost's massive hands gripped your hips, flipping you onto your back. Through tear-blurred vision, you saw him looming over you—all muscle and menace, the skull mask making him look inhuman. Your heart hammered against your ribs.
Some stupid, stubborn part of you—the part that had gotten you into this mess—tried one last time to assert itself.
"Is that supposed to scare me?" you rasped, your voice hoarse and broken. "You're all the same. Just—"
His hand wrapped around your throat, cutting off your words and your air. He squeezed hard, harder than Price had, until black spots danced in your vision. Your hands flew to his wrist, clawing uselessly.
"Still talking," Ghost said, his voice cold and emotionless. "Let's fix that."
He released your throat just long enough for you to gasp in a desperate breath, then slammed into you in one brutal thrust. You screamed—the stretch was overwhelming, painful, his cock even thicker than Price's. He gave you no time to adjust, immediately setting a punishing pace that had you seeing stars.
"That's better," he grunted, his hand returning to your throat, squeezing rhythmically as he fucked you. "No more smart mouth. Just a hole to use."
The lack of oxygen combined with the brutal fucking made your head spin. Your body didn't know whether to fight or surrender, pleasure and pain blurring into something incomprehensible. Tears streamed down your temples as he used you, his grip on your throat never loosening.
"Look at her," Soap said from somewhere above you. "Fucking crying. Where's all that attitude now, princess?"
You tried to glare at him, tried to summon some last shred of defiance, but Ghost squeezed harder and your vision went hazy. Just when you thought you might pass out, he released you, letting you gulp in air.
"Open your mouth," Soap commanded, moving to kneel beside your head.
You hesitated for just a second—one second too long. Ghost's hand cracked across your face, the slap echoing through the room.
"He gave you an order," Ghost growled, never breaking his rhythm. "Obey."
Your mouth fell open, and Soap immediately shoved his cock inside, groaning as he hit the back of your throat. Between Ghost's brutal thrusts and Soap fucking your face, you couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Your body was just a vessel for their pleasure, used from both ends.
"That's it," Soap moaned, his hands tangling in your hair. "Take it. This is what that bratty mouth is good for."
They found a rhythm, both men using you in sync, and despite everything—despite the pain and the humiliation and the overwhelming sensation—you felt another orgasm building. Your body was betraying you completely, responding to the brutal treatment with desperate arousal.
Ghost felt you clenching around him and laughed darkly. "She's going to cum again. Fucking slut loves being used like this."
"No—" you tried to protest around Soap's cock, but it came out as a muffled moan.
"Yes," Ghost corrected, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing harsh circles. "Cum on my cock. Show us what a desperate whore you are."
The orgasm hit you like a freight train, ripping through your body with terrifying intensity. You convulsed around Ghost's cock, screaming around Soap's, your entire body shaking uncontrollably. It went on and on, wave after wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
Soap pulled out of your mouth, letting you gasp and sob. "Fuck, look at her. Completely gone."
Ghost didn't slow down, fucking you through your orgasm and beyond, pushing you toward overstimulation. You whimpered, hands pushing weakly at his chest.
"Too much—can't—please—"
"You can," he said simply. "And you will."
He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. Before you could process the loss, he flipped you over onto your hands and knees. You barely had the strength to hold yourself up, arms shaking.
"Ass up," Ghost ordered, his hand pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing your face into the mattress. "Present yourself properly."
You obeyed without thinking, too overwhelmed to fight. He entered you again from behind, the new angle somehow even deeper. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he pounded into you relentlessly.
"Good girl," he praised darkly. "Learning your place."
Price moved in front of you, his cock still hard despite having just finished. He grabbed your hair, lifting your head. "Clean me off."
You opened your mouth automatically, taking him in, tasting yourself and his cum. The degradation of it should have made you angry, should have sparked some resistance, but instead you just felt... empty. Compliant. Broken.
"That's it," Price murmured, his voice almost gentle. "No more fighting. Just obedience."
Ghost's pace became erratic, his grip tightening. "Going to fill this cunt up," he grunted. "Mark you as ours."
He came with a low groan, spilling deep inside you. The warmth of it triggered another orgasm—smaller than the others but no less devastating. You moaned around Price's cock, your body trembling.
Ghost pulled out, and immediately Gaz took his place. You whimpered at the intrusion, oversensitive and overwhelmed, but he just shushed you mockingly.
"Shh, you can take more," Gaz said, his voice deceptively sweet. "You're going to take everything we give you."
He fucked you slowly at first, almost gentle, but his hand came down hard on your ass. Once, twice, three times, until you were crying out around Price's cock.
"Count them," Gaz ordered. "And thank me."
Price pulled out, letting you speak. Your voice was absolutely wrecked.
"One—thank you, sir—"
Another slap.
"Two—thank you, sir—"
Again.
"Three—thank you, sir—"
The spanking continued, each strike harder than the last, until your ass was on fire and you were sobbing openly. But you counted every single one, thanked him for every single one, your resistance completely shattered.
"Good girl," Gaz praised, his pace increasing. "See how much better you are when you behave?"
"Yes, sir," you whimpered, the words coming automatically now. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry for being bad—"
"What are you?" Price asked, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look up at him.
"A slut," you whispered, shame burning through you. "Your slut."
"Louder."
"I'm your slut!" you cried out, tears streaming down your face. "I'm a worthless slut who needs to be used—please—please use me—"
"Fuck," Gaz groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. "She's really broken now."
He came inside you with a shudder, adding to the mess already leaking out of you. When he pulled out, you collapsed onto the mattress, unable to hold yourself up anymore. Your body was covered in sweat, cum, and tears, trembling uncontrollably.
"One more," Soap said, his voice thick with desire. "My turn to break her completely."
"Please," you sobbed, not even sure what you were begging for anymore. "Please—"
"Please what?" Soap asked, positioning himself behind you. "Please fuck you? Please stop? Use your words, princess."
"Please fuck me," you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out without thought. "Please use me—I need it—I need you to use me—"
"That's what I wanted to hear."
He entered you roughly, and despite everything, despite the overstimulation and exhaustion, your body responded. You moaned, pushing back against him, desperate for more.
"Look at her," Price said, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. "Begging for it now. Where's that bratty little girl who thought she was in control?"
"Gone," you whimpered, the truth of it hitting you. "She's gone—I'm yours—please—"
Soap fucked you brutally, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto his cock with each thrust. The wet sounds of your coupling filled the room, obscene and degrading.
"Say it again," he demanded. "Tell us what you are."
"I'm yours," you sobbed, your mind fragmenting under the onslaught of sensation. "I'm your slut—your toy—your cum dumpster—please—please use me—"
"Fucking hell," Soap groaned. "She's perfect like this. Completely broken."
Another orgasm was building, impossible as it seemed. Your body was beyond your control now, responding to their commands, their touch, their words. You were nothing but sensation, nothing but need.
"Cum," Soap ordered, his hand reaching around to rub your clit. "Cum for me, slut."
You shattered. The orgasm tore through you with devastating force, leaving you screaming and convulsing. Your vision went white, your mind going completely blank. You were aware of nothing but the pleasure, the overwhelming, all-consuming pleasure that seemed to go on forever.
Soap came with a roar, filling you one last time. When he pulled out, you collapsed completely, unable to move, unable to think. Cum leaked out of you, dripping down your thighs. Your body was covered in marks—bruises, bite marks, handprints. You were utterly destroyed.
For a long moment, there was silence except for your ragged breathing and quiet sobs.
"Look at me," Price commanded softly.
You turned your head, meeting his eyes. There was no defiance left in you, no attitude, no fight. Just submission. Complete and total submission.
"What are you?" he asked one final time.
"Yours," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I'm completely yours. I'll do anything—be anything—please—just—"
You couldn't even finish the sentence, too broken to articulate what you needed.
Price's hand stroked your hair, almost tender. "That's right. You're ours now. Our good girl. Our obedient little slut."
"Yes, sir," you breathed, the words feeling right in a way nothing else ever had. "Thank you, sir."
Ghost's hand joined Price's, both men touching you with surprising gentleness now that you were completely broken. "No more attitude," Ghost said. "No more bratty behavior."
"No, sir," you agreed immediately, desperately. "I'll be good—I promise—I'll be so good—"
"We know you will," Gaz said, his hand running down your back. "Because now you understand your place."
"Yes, sir," you whispered, fresh tears sliding down your cheeks. "I understand."
Soap pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his earlier roughness replaced with something almost affectionate. "Our perfect little toy."
You nodded weakly, accepting the label, accepting everything. Your bratty attitude was gone, fucked out of you completely, replaced with desperate submission and need. You were theirs—mind, body, and soul—and the terrifying part was how right it felt.
How much you wanted to stay exactly like this.
Broken. Obedient. Theirs.
"Please," you whispered one last time, not even sure what you were asking for. "Please don't stop—I need—I need you—"
Price smiled, dark and satisfied. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We're not done with you yet. Not even close."
And despite your exhaustion, despite being utterly destroyed, you felt a thrill of anticipation run through you.
reader is kidnapped by Konig and is forced to be his own living doll...
TW: kidnapping, dollification, reader is traumatised, etc. Dead dove do not eat
Baby pink walls. No windows. It could have been the crisp start of morning or hours past midnight—you had no way of knowing. The floor was lined with thick, soft padded play mats, a design choice meant to mock your captivity while ensuring you couldn’t crack your skull against the underlying hardwood. That would be an escape far too easy.
This was your cell. Your new home. You had long since lost the ability to calculate how many weeks or months had bled together; here, the very concept of time ceased to exist. Your prison was meticulously curated with a sickening parody of childhood: teddy bears larger than grown men, a massive dollhouse, a sea of doll memorabilia, and a grand princess bed pushed against the far wall.
When you first arrived, the space had made you physically ill, trapping you in a perpetual, waking nightmare. Over time, the human mind adapted, forcing a hollow acceptance—but that fragile numbness vanished the moment he arrived.
At a passing glance, the room looked like a pastel dream. But the longer you stared into the uncanny void, the more the cracks bled through. The stale, metallic stench of old blood lingered in the air, clashing with the stark iron bars that sealed you away from the world outside. No matter how brightly the paint had once shone, the pink wash was slowly decaying into a decrepit, water-stained grey. It was obvious you weren't the first girl to occupy this space. You likely wouldn't be the last.
You could barely remember your life before the room; it felt abstract, like a movie you had watched half-asleep. All your old, mundane worries seemed laughably trivial compared to the reality you now inhabited. Memories returned only in fleeting, broken shards, never quite fitting together. You had a vague notion that you used to work in a quiet café—an assumption that felt like the catalyst for your entire fate. That was where you met him. He used to stop by so frequently, always smiling. You had mistaken his persistence for eccentric friendliness, assuming he was weird but ultimately harmless. How desperately wrong you had been.
Heavy, deliberate boot steps rattled down the stairs, dragging you violently from your thoughts. The familiar cadence alone sent a sharp ringing through your ears, triggering a volatile cocktail of fear and absolute despair. The heavy deadbolt ground open against the door, swinging inward to reveal him as he stepped into the room. His playroom.
"Klein Maus," his voice rang out, syrupy and giddy like a child on Christmas morning. The sheer innocence in his tone grated painfully against your nerves.
He wasted no time marching across the mats, plop-dropping right in front of you with a large, heavy shopping bag slung over his arm.
"Guess who went shopping?" he giggled, his manic blue eyes locking onto yours with an intense, unblinking focus.
You kept your gaze steady and blank, terrified to answer. In this room, anything could be interpreted as the wrong answer, and your body couldn't endure another "training session" today.
He must have been in a remarkably pleasant mood, because he didn't even acknowledge your silence. Instead, he excitedly began pulling garments from the bag, thrusting the fabrics toward your face to show off his spoils. Through the flurry of pastels, you caught sight of the elaborate, frilly doll dresses. He had an absolute obsession with turning you into a living porcelain figurine. It was all he ever allowed you to wear: stupid, suffocating layers of lace, your hair forced into tight pin curls, your cheeks painted in heavy, artificial blush. He had even forced the total removal of every stray hair from your body to perfect the illusion. The entire display made your stomach turn.
Without thinking, you limply poked at one of the girlish outfits, your expression faltering for a split second into plain, unmasked disgust. It was a fatal mistake. When you looked up, his bright, cheerful demeanor had vanished, his features contorting into a cold, dangerous scowl.
Panicking, you immediately forced your muscles to relax, shifting your face into a mask of superficial delight. You widened your eyes, trying to look eager.
"Much better, little Maus," he murmured, his pleasant expression snapping back into place instantly as he gave your head a patronizing pat. "Do you like them? I can't wait to dress you up, my sweet little dolly."
A dark, icy shiver rippled down your spine. "I-I love them, sir," you whispered, painting a careful smile across your lips and leaning heavily into a submissive, wide-eyed stare.
He drank in the performance completely. Before you could brace yourself, his massive arms hooked under you, hoisting you up effortlessly. He always manhandled you with a rough, heavy-handed disregard, seemingly oblivious to the sheer scale of his own strength. Standing at a towering 6'10", his sheer physical mass made any thought of escape utterly impossible.
He deposited you onto the edge of the high princess bed, your legs dangling over the side like a child's. He began laying out the dresses, meticulously selecting the afternoon's wardrobe before lining up the various brushes and cosmetics required for his makeover. You watched the preparations in silent, suffocating dread.
Your eyes drifted down to your swinging feet. Though he had banned mirrors from the cell, you could catch a warped, gray reflection of yourself in the dark screen of the old CRT television across the room. The shape staring back looked like an absolute stranger. No matter how heavily he caked the cosmetics onto your skin, nothing could hide the deep, dark hollows beneath your eyes, or the severe weight loss brought on by malnutrition and your own stubborn, quiet defiance. Your skin looked sullen, starved of sunlight, and your natural hair was a dull, mousy brown—the cruel inspiration for his favorite nickname.
You were nothing but a hollow shell of the woman you used to be. And looking at him as he smiled over his tools, you realized that was exactly what he wanted. A broken spirit couldn't run away.
I'm obsessed with Price's baby blue eyes sooooooo bad, anywho little headcannon for papa...
Price knew exactly how much power his eyes held over you—and he was entirely too quick to use it to his advantage. Whenever an argument flared up, all it took was for him to look down at you with those striking baby blues, and your anger would instantly melt away. You utterly hated how easily he disarmed you, but if you were being honest, it was the exact thing that had made you fall for him in the first place.
"John, you said you’d do the laundry! Why am I still looking at a pile of unwashed bedsheets?" you called out, utterly exasperated. Getting John to handle household chores was a chore in itself.
"Mmhmm, in a minute, love," his voice drifted back from the living room, completely distracted. His eyes were glued to the TV, tracking the Sunday football match.
Rolling your eyes, you marched into the living room and planted yourself directly in front of the television, completely blocking his view.
Instead of getting annoyed, he just looked up at you, thoroughly amused. The corners of his eyes crinkled with warmth, completely unfazed by your stern expression.
"Come here, love," he murmured, sitting up and patting his thighs, motioning for you to settle into his lap.
With a reluctant sigh, you gave in and sat down, though you kept your posture rigid. "I'm serious. Now that you're home, you should be helping out more around the house," you scowled, crossing your arms tightly.
You purposely kept your gaze locked anywhere but his face, trying desperately to maintain your firm stance.
John leaned in, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He peppered soft, distracting kisses against your skin, nodding along to validate your frustration. "I know, love. Can you ever forgive me for being such an unmannered brute?" he pleaded with mock sincerity.
He leaned back just enough to catch your gaze, staring up at you with wide, innocent blue eyes like a kicked puppy.
A traitorous smile threatened to break across your face. He had you right where he wanted you, and he knew it.
"I'll think about it," you muttered, turning your head away as a warm blush began creeping up your cheeks.
You felt a rough, calloused hand gently cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone to turn your face back toward him.
"Have I ever told you how sexy it is when you get all pissy?" he teased, his grip tightening on your waist as he pulled you down into a soft, lingering kiss.
You couldn't help the giggle that escaped you. Giving in completely, you shifted to straddle his lap, melting against him. You pulled back just enough to take his face in your hands, your thumbs gently caressing the familiar, rough texture of his beard. For a quiet moment, you just sat there, comfortably staring down at your husband and admiring how handsome he truly was. Those boyishly blue eyes looked back up at you, completely softened and radiating nothing but pure love.
"You're lucky you're cute, old man," you murmured affectionately. You placed a sweet kiss right on the tip of his nose, lightly tracing the faint freckle there.
Before he could trap you in his arms again, you pushed yourself off his lap and began to saunter back out toward the kitchen.
"Laundry. Now," you commanded, casting a sharp look over your shoulder to catch one last glimpse of him before leaving the room.
"Yes, ma'am," he drawled, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes were entirely glued to your hips as you walked away, a smug, captivated grin stretching across his face.
i just read your ballerina x kong and i loved it!! maybe you could do a soap mactavish x ballerina?? where he’s so supportive and soft with her and helps her through everything?
a/n: thank you for the req anon hope you enjoy!! Thinking of making this a series what y'all think??
Pastel & Steel
Soft Ballerina!Reader x Johnny "Soap" Mactavish
fluff
Johnny knew he didn’t fit into your world. It was a world of pastel pinks, soft edges, and absolute innocence.
But that never stopped him from showing up to every single recital with an obnoxiously large bouquet of roses, or enduring every charity gala and fancy dinner in a stuffy tuxedo, looking absolutely radiant with pride just to stand there and watch you shine.
You had grown up sheltered, under the watchful eyes of parents who were strict about everything, but downright ruthless when it came to your training. Yet, all those years of harsh rules, rigid schedules, and constant surveillance had paid off: you were now one of the most elite dancers in the industry.
Ballet was not a forgiving sport.
The industry was cutthroat, and the pressure to be flawless was a heavy cloud that had hung over your head since you were a little girl.
It didn’t help that you had been babied your entire life; you were a sweet, fragile lamb who didn't know how to fend for herself in the big, bad world.
Johnny absolutely adored that about you. You were so beautifully lost, so doe-eyed and entirely unaware of how rotten the world could truly be.
Johnny knew exactly how much that lifestyle demanded of you.
He watched you skip meals, wake up at the crack of dawn, and practice straight through to the evening, leaving you with virtually no social life outside of him. It broke his heart—and made his blood boil—to see just how far you were willing to push yourself to satisfy everyone else's expectations. But he always made sure to take care of you when you couldn’t do it for yourself.
When your company announced its upcoming rendition of The Nutcracker, and you landed the coveted lead role, it should have been a moment of pure joy. But while you were ecstatic, the achievement carried a crushing burden: the absolute, non-negotiable demand for perfection.
“Again!”
The loud crack of a cane echoed through the studio, sending shockwaves straight down your spine. But there was no room to react; you simply had to keep going.
Your instructor was drilling you on your musical timing, and it just so happened to be an unlucky day. Your timing was off, and your form was “not up to par”—which meant her full, unbridled wrath was set upon you for the entire rehearsal.
“Are you a ballerina or a barbarian? Honestly?!” she screeched.
You could feel your cheeks burn a volatile crimson, and your throat felt suffocatingly tight.
The other girls in the room only stared, whispering among themselves. They knew the stakes; if you couldn’t deliver, one of them would gladly step into your place.
Steeling yourself, you went back to the barre to take your position and redo the routine, but she stopped you with a harsh flick of her cane.
“I’ve seen all I need to see. You can go home for the evening,” she said, dismissing you without so much as a second look.
The words bounced around the inside of your skull, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. This couldn't be happening.
“P-please,” you managed to choke out, the lump in your throat heavy and suffocating.
But she merely waved you off with a sharp flick of her hand before calling another dancer to take your place for the rest of the timing rehearsals.
Completely shattered, your mind went entirely blank. You moved on pure autopilot, running out of the studio and pulling on your oversized sweater and Uggs just to escape. The moment you hit the cold night air, it felt as though the oxygen had been vacuumed right out of your lungs. Your body didn't even know how to process the panic.
Just as you were about to spiral, a strong pair of arms wrapped around you, and a deeply familiar voice pulled you back to reality.
“Hey, hey... shhh,” Johnny cooed, completely bewildered by what had you so shaken up.
Hearing his voice was the ultimate catalyst for your inevitable meltdown. The dam broke, and you burst into loud, heavy sobs, burying your face directly into his chest.
“It’s okay, lass. I’m here,” he murmured, pressing gentle kisses against the crown of your head.
Johnny always made it a habit to wait around for you to finish practice; Over his dead body were you ever leaving that building alone at night if he could help it.
He was always there, a permanent shield against the outside world.
And so, right on cue, there he was—his strong arms open and entirely ready to catch you, pulling you in to hold you tightly the exact second you broke down right in front of him.
Hearing the guttural wails escape from your lips nearly broke him. He absolutely hated seeing you so upset, so completely shattered by a world that didn't deserve you.
The next hour passed in a blur, and before you knew it, you were back in your shared apartment.
Johnny made it a point to treat you like a fragile little doll—even more so than he usually did. He ran a warm bath, gently lifting you into the water and ensuring he used all the specific soaps and calming oils that always helped relax you when you got overwhelmed like this.
He didn't leave your side for a single second, kneeling by the tub and holding your hand as you sniffled, your eyes and lips still swollen and puffy from crying.
“You’re too cute when ya cry, you know that?” he teased softly, trying to lighten the heavy mood as he tapped a gentle kiss onto the tip of your nose.
But you only looked up at him, your long lashes heavy with water and your bottom lip wobbling violently, as though his words were about to set you off all over again.
“No, no, no, don’t cry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make ya upset—ah, Christ,” panic instantly set in.
Johnny frantically took your face in his large hands, cradling your cheeks with utmost care, looking exactly like a stressed-out dad trying to coax a baby out of a meltdown.
But it was too late. You were in full-on sobs all over again.
It wasn't until Johnny finally managed to get you out of the bath, dress you in your favorite pastel pink pajamas, and gently braid your damp hair that the storm inside you finally began to calm.
Now, you were sitting in his lap, curled tightly against his broad chest. He drew soft, slow circles against your back, the rhythmic warmth of his hand lulling you toward a heavy, exhausted slumber.
“I don’t deserve this part, Johnny... I mean, who was I fooling?”
Your voice was entirely spent, barely a whisper in the quiet room, but just loud enough for him to catch.
Hearing that, he immediately sat you up so you were forced to face him.
“Listen here. You are the most beautiful—”
He pressed a firm kiss to your forehead.
“Most graceful—”
Another kiss, this time to your cheek.
“Most talented—”
A soft kiss to your jaw.
“And did I mention the absolute most beautiful ballerina there ever was?”
He began peppering kisses all over your face, intentionally hitting every sensitive spot until the tears completely vanished, replaced by an eruption of breathless giggles. God, how he loved that sound.
“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled, trying to look away to hide your blush, but he gently caught your chin, forcing your eyes back to his. His bright blue eyes stared down into yours with absolute adoration.
“Aye, lass. But I’ll never tell a lie.”
That finally made you smile—a real, genuine smile. Johnny always knew exactly how to pull you back from the edge of those dark, self-doubting moments. You needed him just as much as he needed you.
He settled back into the cushions of the couch, his strong arms wrapping around you to pull you flush against him, petting your hair with a gentle, rhythmic touch.
“Besides,” he murmured, his voice rumbling low against your ear, “that old witch is just jealous she cannae pull off a leotard half as well as you do, babydoll.” To seal the compliment, he pressed another row of tender kisses into your hair.
Normally, you would have swatted his arm for the comment, but honestly, you were far too exhausted to lift a finger—and way too comforted to disagree.
